


Irascibility

by Dueregard



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Demons, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Exorcism, Exorcists, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Hallucinations, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, More tags on the way, No use of y/n, Other, Possessed!Reader - Freeform, Possession, Reader-Insert, Religious Imagery, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, dubcon, more dubcon than noncon, reader interactive, reader uses he/him pronouns, tobacco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-10-13 04:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20576120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dueregard/pseuds/Dueregard
Summary: While you’ve always been merely interested in the darkness, it seems the darkness is smitten with you.You arrive in Italy, to study with the exorcists you’ve only read about, but you never travel anywhere alone these days. Your constant companion might complicate matters, especially when your new mentors take an interest in the strange accidents and coincidences that haunt your steps.





	1. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to Italy and I have never been to church.

The street is narrow when you turn off the main road. It was little more than an alleyway, stairs, and doors. Windows and clotheslines bare down on you. The colors of the old buildings, aged brick, are muted in the late afternoon shadows. It looks dreary. Worn-down rather than antique. A little light goes a long way. 

You readjust the bag on your shoulder. The suitcase contains all that you own, but for the things in your pockets. 5 euro after the train ride and a modest meal at the station. You’re already hungry again. There must be a warm meal waiting for you at the dormitory. You glance again at the paper crumpled in your hand. The pencil marks are already worn after spending a day in your pocket, but you can still make out the number.

158, 167, there.

The door looks like any other. Black trim, old wood, arched at the top. There’s an iron grate over the small window set in the wood. It’s dark. The handle is black with age. There is no lock. Why would there be? Sanctuary needs no locks. The lamp flickers on upon your approach.

You knock once, twice, thrice. No one answers immediately. But you are patient.

The door opens only a little and you can see the silhouette of a figure, towering through the crack in the doorway. There is a single eye staring down at you.

“Hi, there. I’m the new resident. The bishop told me I was expected.” You bow your head, out of deferent habit as you tell him your name. 

“Yes, of course.” His smile is the first thing you see when the door opens wider. His accent in English and he doesn’t seem to be particularly ashamed of it. “You’re later than we anticipated.”

A tall man with faded red hair, caught in the lamp above the door like fine copper wire, stands over you in the threshold. There are laugh lines around his eyes, expression kind. It is not clergy-kind, but something more genuine.

“I got lost on the way here.”

“You’ll be used to the Italian streets soon.”

“I hope so. I’m definitively not used to being lost.”

His smile is obliging when he reaches out a hand to shake yours. After you pretend to ignore it, he turns to lead you through the faded oak doorway. “I’m Magnus. Magnus Enns.” He wears no collar nor cassock, but instead a wool sweater over a black turtleneck. He resembles your university professors, not a priest. “I look after this little outpost of ours.”

“I see.” You follow him inside. The front hall is crisp white, polished oak trim around the doors, a cross over the coat rack. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror by the coats. You’re tired. Dark circles under your eyes give it away.

After you’re inside, you face Father Magnus. But, over the doorway, something gets your attention. A horseshoe? Magnus follows your gaze, though you doubt he would need to. His eyes are knowing even if his smile hasn’t fallen. He’s merely suited it for his new mood. “Sometimes it’s better to be safe instead of strictly orthodox.” A brief pause follows and you school your expression into what you think is neutral, perhaps even thoughtful. “Nonetheless, this is a place for ideas and development. Questioning the apparent is our lifeblood.”

“Yes, Father.”

“The others are on an outing today. The dormitory is left to us.” He doesn’t elaborate and you consider what he’s said.

“What sort of outing?” You set down your suitcase before it pulls your shoulder from its socket.

“An exorcism.” There’s a flash of something new in his expression. “That is our main charge after all.” 

“I see.” You can’t keep the weariness from my voice.

“Would you care for some tea? Before you’re settled?” He reaches to grab your luggage before you can stop him. “Put the kettle on, won’t you?” He’s walking down the hall, your suitcase in tow, and up the stairs.

Your mouth is open like you were about to stop him, but your opportunity is long past. What would you have said anyway? To your right is a doorway; the door itself has been removed but the hinges still remain. It is a dining hall fit for a large household. One long table and benches pulled out of a monastery. They are well-built and old. They’ve probably never been in another building.

On the far end of the long room is a kitchen. The stove is older than even Magnus, by your estimation. But the kettle on the front burner is pristine, well-tended. It’s no trouble to fill it with water, but the real challenge lies in lighting the stove. It takes several tries before you see the blue flame. By then, you catch Magnus’s tall frame out of the corner of your eye. You don’t know how long he’s been there. 

“Flew in from America, right?” He moves behind you, faded leather loafers silent on the uneven hardwood, ready to trip the unsuspecting. 

“Yes. I’ve studied for the last three years there.” 

“What tea would you like?” His voice is quiet and obliging, but you can feel the test there. Even if he won’t admit to it. He’s reaching up into the cabinets. The doors have also been removed for ease of access, but you shudder to think of what they looked like in this dark, wooden room. They must have been beautiful. 

“Whatever you prefer.” You don’t follow behind him to look. 

You’d heard a lot about Magnus from various circles and in various modes. While not everyone liked him, everyone respected him and his work. You’d read the stories, the reports in the archives, watched the recordings of his exorcisms. You know the monsters he’s pulled out of people and now that you’re in the same room with him, it makes it difficult to speak your mind. He’s got you beat in experience by about 25 years. 

“Something herbal, I think, since it’s so late already.” He turns back to you and shrugs, “Though, you’re young, you can probably drink coffee and fall right to sleep.” It’s a joke, if the quirk at the corner of his mouth is any indication. 

“As long as it’s not chamomile.” You add, not ready to retire yet. You’re jet-lagged, train-lagged, and bone-tired, but eager to start. 

“I have a fine peppermint tea I like on days like this. Cool on the tongue, warm in the gut, as I always say.” It did sound like something he would say. 

“Sounds wonderful.” The spring was in full swing now and your head is full of snot and your lungs full of dust. 

“You must be hungry.” Magnus frowns, like it hadn’t occurred to him before. He faces you, teapot prepared and two mugs beside it. One features a hand-painted row of daisies and the other is plain ceramic. “There’s not much since I haven’t had a chance to do the shopping, but I’m sure there’s enough for a soup, perhaps?” He crosses, brushing past you to investigate. You can feel how warm he is just by proximity. Or maybe it’s something else: goodness. You feel goosebumps spring up on the back of your neck, like whispers against your bare skin. 

The kettle behind you is starting to boil, steam trailing upwards. 

“Here!” He laughs, pulling out a bowl from the fridge, the fridge as old as the stove. “Leftovers. I’m sure Julien won’t mind. Handmade pasta from a neighbor down the way.” The foil over the top of it is crinkled, like it’s been picked at a few times. He peels it back. Tomatoes, maybe an herb, and pasta. 

He retrieves a pan and dumps the contents, far too much for just yourself, but you don’t stop him. “I’ll keep this warm for after our tea.” He explains, “I wanted to speak with you first.” 

“Concerning?” You are not automatically suspicious, but almost. Father Blackwood had mentioned that you, a novice, would be an outlier and you suppose he’s not wrong, now that you’re here. 

“You, of course.” He turns that smile on you and you manage to relax your shoulders finally. 

“Ah.” He catches the kettle just as it’s beginning its shrill whistle, in practice for a long time. The oven mitt he grabs the handle with has the Tasmanian Devil on it and you can’t stifle the snort of laughter before it’s out of your mouth. 

“Sorry.” You mutter, taking a step back to let him bring the kettle over. 

“For what? You’re not laughing at me, are you?” 

“No.” You say, too quickly. 

“Where did you grow up? Have you been in America for long?” 

You blink at the question, unsure how to answer, why the answer should matter. But you tell him nonetheless. 

“The bishop spoke with me about you, so maybe I have the advantage here.” He laughs, and it sounds too modern for this old place.

“Maybe not.” You hide your smile behind your tea. It’s hard not to, even though your insides are bristling, right at the back of your head, in your scalp. “You’re pretty famous, Y’know?” 

Magnus stops smiling but continues to sip his tea. 

“I didn’t mean to bring it up.” You add, looking down at the table. It’s been worn smooth over the years, stained dark from plates, elbows, so shiny you can see the silhouette of your reflection. 

“It’s fine. I should have assumed you’d be familiar with us, since you were recommended to me.” 

Your brow furrows. No one had told you that. You had thought they assumed it would be a good fit because of your less-than-radical enthusiasm. Ecclesiastical enthusiasm half of you revolted against. This, on the other hand, was a quiet corner of the church. A place to hide the doubters and dissidents. 

“You didn’t know that.” He says, but it’s not a question. He can see it in your face and that’s when you realize how dangerous this is, how this is possibly the worst place for you to be. With your companion. With your curiosities. 

“The bishop said you might benefit from a more hands-on instruction, especially with your ‘unerring interest in the subject.’” He continues, quoting. 

“They don’t typically admit novices, at the Vatican. They usually require years of school prior to acceptance.” 

“But you’ve jumped ahead, it would seem. Why is that?” 

“I simply thought the bishop was tired of my evening phone calls asking about the poltergeist in Peru or the possession in Amityville.” You try to lighten the mood, returning to your tea. “He always said my mind was too dark.” It would be a joke if it wasn’t so true. 

“He warned me of that.” Magnus nodded. “We’re all a little dark here. We have to be. We live in it.” 

“I understand.” 

“I’m sure you do.” It’s not sarcastic and you have to wonder if he’s capable of sarcasm. “Bishop Blackwood said you were troubled when you first came to him.” 

That was one word for it. But maybe you’d been a better actor than you thought. You remember the day every night before you sleep and it follows you when you wake. Your mistake of pride weighs on you in a very literal sense, chattering and giggling. “I was younger, then. More easily distressed.” You want Magnus to like you more than you originally thought. 

“I think I was braver when I was younger.” Magnus counters with a deep chuckle like chopping wood, crackling fire, easy to lose yourself in. “But it doesn’t matter now.” 

“Father Magnus, I-”

“Please, just Magnus here.” He cuts you off, but he’s still smiling, so he’s not upset. Right? 

“Magnus, I agreed to come here because I like the work. About that, I have no doubts. And I agreed to come to you because Blackwood says you are the best at what you do.” 

“Have you ever seen an exorcism before? In person?” 

“No.” You admit. 

“I’m not questioning your dedication.” Magnus smiles, adding your name like a last course of a fine meal, finishing his tea in one gulp. “I think it is easy to give into the image of the hero or as a savior, as the case may be. It can be attractive to young people. But no one will recognize you for it. There are no accolades.” 

“I know. I’m not expecting any.” You’re hoping he can hear the joke in your tone. He does and he laughs heartily. 

“Good. I think you’ll fit in well here, in that case.” He reaches to touch your hand and you flinch away without thinking. You play it off, taking a sip of your tea, but it couldn’t have been more obvious. The heat is in your face and there’s whispering in your ears. “That’s a fine watch.” Magnus adds, expression softening. 

“Thank you. A gift.” You say with a sigh, letting out the breath you’d been holding. 

The pan is sizzling and Magnus rises to see to it. You finish your tea as he does so and you take them to the sink to wash them and dry them. By the time you’re done, Magnus has two plates ready at the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” He sets the utensils down beside the plates, waiting for you to sit before he follows. It smells good; your mouth waters. 

“Oh, lord.” He starts, though he speaks out of routine, “Thank you for not letting our dinner burn and thank you for the fresh basil. May all great things be done in your name. Amen.” 

“Amen.” You stare at him, through the unorthodox grace, then as he twirls long noodles around his fork. He does not talk while he eats and you’re happy for the reprieve, however brief. The sauce is excellent. So simple, so homey. Your plate is finished too quickly, but you’re contented. 

On the contrary, Magnus eats slowly, like every bite is a new taste. You notice the raw skin of his knuckles, scraped and scabbed, and you have to wonder how it happened. 

You don’t speak until he does. 

“You liked it? Be sure to tell Julien. He does all the cooking around here.” 

“How many others live here?” 

“Three, including myself. You’ll be meeting them soon enough. Don’t want to ruin the surprise.” He finishes his plate and you gather his dishes this time. Partly to be polite, mostly to avoid any more conversation. “We can go over all the droll rules tomorrow,” he approaches, standing beside you to rinse. Your elbows touch when he rolls up his sleeves to get to work. His arms are strong, firm, and dotted with scars. 

“Who will I be sharing a room with?” 

Magnus dries his hands on a towel. “Thankfully, this place is large enough that we don’t have to share. Though, you are next to Cas and he tends to stay up late.” He murmurs, as if he’s feeling guilty. “I’m sure you’ll grow used to it.” 

“I stay up late so I doubt I’ll even notice.” It’s meant to be reassuring. 

“Do you have insomnia?” 

“No. I just don’t like to sleep.” That’s true, at least. “Too much work to be done.” That’s only half-true. 

“Well, please be careful. You’ll be no good to anyone if you don’t get enough rest.” It’s chastising, but also doting in a familiar way. “Especially not to us.” It’s a warning. 

“Yes, Fa- Magnus.” You catch yourself, looking down at the sink. Chipped porcelain, stained bottom where water has worn away for a century. “I intend to give my all here.” 

“You’ll have to.” The knowing look he gives you makes you swallow. 

The front door groans open like a coughing ghost. “Honey, I’m home!” Came a shout, more like a crack of lightning from the foyer. A figure stepped through the doorway further down the hall, across the room from the both of you at the sink. “Who’s the kid?” 

It was difficult to take him all in at once. He is wearing the collar, the slacks, the shoes, but he also seems to wear the very air around him. Everything is crafted to his look, his will. His hair is perfectly styled, chestnut brown, his face is clean-shaven, jawline sharp enough to cut, but his eyes. His eyes beg all the attention, the scar that trails down his brow, down his cheek was a close second. He is tall and lithe and ageless. Each movement is serpentine and sure. 

“This is our new flat mate. From Blackwood’s program in Baltimore.” Magnus cuts in as Cas approaches. 

“Oh. This little tyke?” Cas stops in front of you, reaching out to ruffle your hair. You can feel Magnus tense beside you, but you don’t have enough time to react before he’s already pulled away. Your scalp feels like it’s on fire and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your hands are fists at your sides and you still don’t meet his eyes. “Hey, kiddo, I’m Caspar Eckhart but if you don’t call me Cas you’ll probably end up regretting it.” You recognize him instantly when he tells you his name; he’s everything you’d imagined. 

“Cas.” It’s another warning, through a smile, and Cas wilts. Only slightly. 

“Hey, what? Just trying to be welcoming.” He rolls his eyes before bee-lining to the fridge. He reaches in and you catch the color of dried blood on the sleeve of his button-down, beneath the black jacket. 

“How did it go?” Magnus asks, perhaps forgetting that you’re still there. You nearly did yourself, staring openly at Cas drink milk out of the carton. 

“Long weekend.” Cas breathes out, draping his arm over the door of the fridge. “Some lesions, sprained wrist, nothing too severe.” But Cas looks fine to you. No cast, no bandages.

“Surprised you didn’t have to call anyone in. Twins like that.” Magnus shakes his head, arms crossed. They speak as if they’re discussing the weather. You glance into the hallway; now would be a good time to take your leave. 

“Hey, pumpkin, be a sport and go get us a bottle of wine out of the cellar. To celebrate.” 

Magnus fixes Cas with a look, but you’re not entirely upset. You’re used to running errands, playing assistant. The pet name was a little much, maybe. 

“It’s down the hall, the door under the staircase.” 

You turn to go and as soon as you’re out of the hallway, they start whispering. You don’t recognize it as them at first, because your mind is never entirely silent these days. You pause, listening. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Maggie.” Cas. 

“Then don’t act like that, Cassie.” Magnus, nonplussed. 

“He’s young and stupid so he’s more fun to mess with than you are.” 

“Cas, I bloody mean it when I say I won’t have it. He’s...” His voice drops and you don’t hear what the older priest says. 

“No. That bad?” Cas again. 

You don’t want to listen to any more so you walk down the hall. You have an idea of what they’re saying, Blackwood would have told them. It was a secret that everyone knew. You open the short door and start down the stars. It’s dim and dark down below. You feel along the wall for a light switch. Maybe a bulb in the ceiling, you can’t see for certain. 

You hear more whispering, but that isn’t possible. They’re upstairs. 

You reach the bottom of the stairs and you feel fingers on the back of your neck. No, not now, not here. You shiver and let out a gasp, stepping away. You can see the wine rack, maybe, across the room, from the light at the doorway. 

The smooth voice like woodfire, primordial and powerful; he says your name like a long-lost lover. Other than your name, you can make out soft “darling’s” and “lovely”’s. You can feel silk against the back of your hand as something brushes past you. 

“Leave me alone.” The shadow drifts past you, and you’re never sure if what you’re seeing is really happening or if it’s only in your mind. It doesn’t matter. Your companion is always real enough. 

“Don’t want to keep your new masters waiting.” Arms drape over you shoulders and you feel a stubbled cheek press against yours. “Don’t want them to know about you, about us.” A kiss on your cheek. 

“It’s not us.” You growl, stepping away. “Son of a-”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He starts in and he won’t stop until he’s sufficiently entertained. Just like it always was. It was better when you could sneak out into the dark square at night for fresh air. Now you’re stuck in this damp cellar with only one exit. “Don’t want to do that.” His large hands card through your hair. It always struck you how gentle his hands were, not monstrous or corpse-cold. 

Another step away from him and you’re reaching for the neck of a bottle. Cas hadn’t specified and you couldn’t read the labels if you wanted to. 

“My angel, you don’t know what you do to me.” Deft fingers you can’t see work on the button of your pants. “You think you want to finally-“ 

“Are you alright?” It seems distant at first. You pull the bottle from the rack. Magnus calls your name from the next floor. Rushed footsteps down the stairs. The light flicks on and the yellow bulb above your head alights. You blink, eyes narrowed, wine in your hand. Magnus is there at the foot of the stairs. The two of you are alone. The heat in your stomach is slowly trying to dissipate. 

“Sorry. I wasn’t sure which one.” Your voice is shaking. 

“Which one do you have there?” He approaches, easy smile, kind eyes.

You look down at the bottle in your hands. Fine script, Italian, of course. 

You hear it before you feel it. 

The glass cracks and shatters in your grip and the wine pours down your wrist, soaking into the cuff of your shirt. It’s red and rich. Some of it has splattered on the rest of your clothes, your face. You can smell it, taste drops of it on your mouth. 

“I’m sorry.” There’s a soft, secret chuckle somewhere behind you, but you don’t look. Mesmerized by the puddle of wine. There’s a gash across your palm and the pad of your thumb, straight and perfect. Then it starts to sting. “I didn’t mean to-” 

“Are you alright?” Magnus approaches, reaching out. He hesitates before his fingers touch yours. It’s sweet and it makes you feel worse. 

“Yes, but...” You trail off, kneeling down to gather the glass. 

Magnus’s voice is firm when he repeats your name. Not angry, but not far off. 

More footsteps, or footstomps, down the stairs and you can feel Cas enter more than you see it. You’re focused on the floor so they don’t have to see the beginnings of reluctant tears. “What the hell happened here?” He leans against one of the posts that you assume hold up the whole building. His collar is undone and he looks somehow even more relaxed. As relaxed as chaos can be. 

“It was an accident.” Magnus speaks for you, squatting down to help sweep all of the fine shards into a pile. 

Cas rolls his eyes and crosses his hands over his chest. “Better not have been any of the good ones.” He mutters and it might be a threat. After watching you two for a few long moments he groans and steps towards you. He doesn’t wear dress shoes, but rather industrial boots, abused by time. He reaches for a few stray bits of glass in the periphery. The bottle exploded everywhere and the puddle of wine is already beginning to soak into the stone floor. It’s redder than you remembered.

“You’re bleeding.” It’s Cas’s voice, too close to you, and you jump. He snatches your wrist and yanks it towards him. It’s true. Your palm is bright red, but the pain feels very distant. You drop the shards of glass you’re holding. “GD klutz.” But it doesn’t sound angry, or threatening, just sad. 

Hearing his disappointment, this is the first moment you’ve ever wanted so badly to tell someone why things break and wilt around you. 

“It’s fine, really.” You begin again. 

“Go look after him, and I’ll finish this up.” Magnus is staring at you as I blink back at him. The tears have retreated even as you sniffle once. 

“C’mon, scout.” Cas stands, hand still around your wrist to help you up. Or pull you up, depending on how you looked at it. “Let me teach you some first aid.” 

You don’t know how you get up the stairs; it feels kind of like floating. The fading sunlight is warmer and chases away the shadows in the corners of your eyes. Your companion always hated the sun. Cas sits you down at the dining table, leaning down to inspect the thin slice in your hand. 

“Can you make a fist?” 

You do, too quickly to be anything but agony. You wince but you don’t unclench your fingers. Knuckles white. 

“Good. Not too deep. Gotta stop the bleeding anyway or else you might get a little fruity loops, right?” You don’t realize it's a question at first. “Right?” He repeats. 

“Right.” 

He ruffles your hair and stands back up. You wouldn’t have guessed there would be a comprehensive first aid kit in the kitchen, but there is, tucked next to the fire extinguisher. How very practical. 

“You better be grateful wine has a decent alcohol content, huh?” It’s a joke, but it doesn’t beg laughter. He pulls out a bottle, some gauze, butterfly bandages. “This is going to. Suck. Ass.” He warns before pouring the contents of the bottle over the flesh, dyed red by the wine. You grimace, groaning under my breath. Cas keeps a firm grip on your wrist to keep you from pulling away. 

A clean cloth is pressed against it. It’s better than disinfectant, at least, and you let out another sigh. “Hold that there.” Cas orders before bringing your other hand to the cloth, doing the hard work for you. “Try to elevate it a little, pumpkin. We want to stop the bleeding.” There’s something comforting about it. 

He’s unpeeling band-aid wrappers and you can look at him closely for the first time without worrying about him catching you. One of his eyes is green-blue and the other is blue-green. It’s a subtle difference, but it’s captivating. 

“You feeling dizzy?” Cas removes his hands from yours to remove your glasses and feel your forehead. Other than a thin layer of sweat at your scalp, you don’t feel particularly warm or cold. “Light-headed?” 

“No,” You shake your head, but that’s what does it. You lean forward, feeling sick. You forgot how much you hated the sight of blood. 

“Hey, kiddo, relax. Breathe in, breathe out, you know the drill.” 

“Can I have my glasses back?” You’re sure your eyes are red-rimmed, dazed. 

“Yeah, sure.” Cas seems to remember himself, but you can’t make out the details of his expression without your glasses. When the world comes back into focus, he looks the same as ever. Half a sneer and perfect hair. 

There’s a hand on your shoulder and it’s too much. Too much touch. It’s become harder and harder over time and the itch is hotter and hotter on your skin. You can’t bring yourself to shrug away, though. Cas has been so helpful.

“Alright, open ‘er up, let’s see how it’s going.” You both look down as he steps back. The blood has soaked through the bandage but when you pull it away it’s beginning to clot. You’re grateful. 

You make yourself look at it as he cleans it again, gently this time, and puts the final wrap around it, and then another one over that. 

“It’s not neat, but it’ll do the job. You should get Julien to do you next time.” He piles up the bloody bandages, the paper wrappers. Time is starting to speed up again and the silence is oppressive. “I doubt you’re feeling much like a glass of wine, now, huh?” You think he means it to be teasing, but it comes out as tired. 

“I think I’ll be going to my room.” 

“Sure thing, kiddo.” You stand and he gives you room where he hadn’t bothered before. “Want me to come with you?” 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know which room is mine.” You let my bandaged hand fall to your side, feeling the circulation slowly return. 

“Alrighty, c’mon, then. Bed waits for no man or whatever.” He waves you on, into the hall and up the narrow staircase. The wood screams underfoot, protesting at your weight. “First door on the left. I’m one more up.” 

There’s a hand-written sign on your door. ‘Welcome,’ in fine calligraphy. It’s not signed, but it doesn’t seem like something Cas would bother with. You stop at the closed door and Cas is the one who has to push it open. Your suitcase is laid out on the bed. There’s a modest desk and a clothes rack. There’s no closet or dresser, but it’s not like you have much. It’s cozy and it smells old and dusty. 

The bed is made up with a quilt and knitted throw and a plump pillow. There is a narrow window that the last of the light is filtering through. The dusk makes you want to sleep, desperately. 

“Rules are, basically, don’t be a shit and keep your room clean, got it?” 

“Got it.” You nod, reaching up to undo the top button of your shirt. 

“If you need anything, I’m usually up, but only for emergencies, kay, pumpkin?” 

“Yeah.” Even speaking has become difficult. 

“Sleep tight, kiddo.” And he’s down the hall and you’re alone. 

You stumble fully into the room and slump down onto the bed. You kick off your shoes, uncaring, and pull off your socks. You start on your pants, but you notice that they’re still undone. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First original work published on AO3 (though I will happily admit I was inspired by other unoriginal characters)! I was really nervous about sharing this, but since it’s been rolling for so long, I might as well give it a go. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Any feedback, good or otherwise, is always helpful. Thanks for stopping by!


	2. Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y’all. Back again. Just wanted to thank everyone for their sweet comments. They make my day! ^^ I hope you’ve enjoyed this so far.

Day Two 

The night passes. Not easy, but it passes. Nightmares and waking up soaked in your own sweat. The usual amount, at least. You were sure he would have been more lively, but maybe shattering the bottle had taken great effort. 

You wake, the sheets wrapped and wrapped around you again, naked but for trunks. You hadn’t bothered pulling out your pajamas. Your hand feels more like it was bruised than actually cut. You roll over and groan, the sun bright. How long have you been asleep? 

That’s when you see the glass of water on the table, the card. It’s your name, again, in that same fine lettering as the sign on your door. Magnus, maybe? You take a drink of the water, cool and crisp, before you open the card. 

_Please get plenty of rest today._ _The painkillers will help. -Julien_

They seem to be making a fuss over a little thing. 

You get dressed. Light jeans and a loose button-down; it’s been some time since you’ve worn something so casual. The room is already growing warmer and you’ll be grateful later. 

The kitchen isn’t empty like you hoped. 

“Mornin’, kiddo!” Cas calls from the dining table. He has a paper draped across the surface in front of him, red pen in hand. He looks like a mad surgeon with a scalpel. “Sleep well?” 

“Yeah.” You admit, embarrassed now about yesterday. “I didn’t know if I should set an alarm.” 

“We’ll let it slide this time, but from here on out it’s 5 am, upandatem, Kay?” 

“He joking.” Magnus cuts in, fixing Cas with a look over the top of his book. It’s not the Bible, like you’d expect, but a pulp mystery novel. “Don't be cheeky.” 

“Aw, Nagnus, you know I can’t help it.” The smile Cas flashes could both brighten your day and ruin your life. 

“Breakfast is getting cold.” Another voice, soft and softly accented, barely reaches you across the long room. A man, a tall man, stands at the stove. He’s wearing only a long silk robe and matching pajama bottoms. His chest is covered in fair, curly hair. It suits him, though his face is clean shaven. Magnus is the only one who’s neglected the stubble gathering at his jawline. 

His eyes alight on you and you feel like you’re under a microscope. He doesn’t blink for a long while. “How do you like your eggs?” 

You tell him and he nods and returns to his work. The other two exorcists meander over to the counter to fix up their own plates. A very American breakfast: potatoes, toast, bacon. You wait to approach until Magnus waves you over with that unnerving, knowing smile. 

“Just like mama used to make.” Cas cackles, setting his plate down on the newspaper. You have to wonder if he ever had a mother the way he eats. Magnus is trying not to watch him as he slathers butter onto his toast. 

That soft voice calls you closer. This must be Julien. “You took the aspirin, yes?” He’s speaking under his breath.

“Yes. Thank you.” You want to say thank you for the note on your door, but you’re not sure how. 

“I’ll look at your hand a little later. If you don’t mind.” He adds, flipping an egg expertly. He’s a joy to watch as he cooks, never taking his eyes off you. 

“Alright. It won’t be of much use today, I don’t think.” You add, before he hands you a plate. Your serving is already prepared and he slides the eggs onto the bed of potatoes. 

“You seem eager to get started. Don’t you want to take in the city? Go out and explore?” Magnus cuts in, washing down a bite of toast with tea. 

“I didn’t think I’d have time.” 

“You think we’re gonna put you in a room with a demon on your first day?” Cas mutters, mouth full. He swears under his breath when Magnus kicks him under the table. You stifle a smile, more at the irony than Magnus’s swift justice. 

“Blackwood told me to be prepared for anything.” It sounds cooler than you meant it to. Cas’s smile somehow widens and it’s nearly sinister. 

“Crazy old bastard.” Cas shakes his head, eating a piece of toast whole. No one bothers to correct him. 

“Please, sit.” Julien is standing beside you with his own breakfast. Magnus scoots down on the bench seat to give you room and Julien slides in beside Cas. It’s oddly peaceful, like suburban, 2.5 kids and a minivan peaceful.

“Oh. This is Julien Ansgar.” Magnus cuts in, the tips of his ears pink, bashful that he forgot the introduction. 

“I could guess.” You nod. 

“We all know the bishop Blackwood.” Magnus doesn’t have to say it, but the other two look up from their plates. “You’ve worked with him for two years now? He was vague on what exactly you did in the program, beyond the typical seminary and classes.” He’s put a lot of thought into this conversation and it shows in the way he watches you closely as you respond. 

“Research, mostly. I analyzed exorcisms across the globe and classified demons. In addition, we looked at more difficult cases to make reports on methodology. Which was the most time-consuming. A lot of the information was abstract or nearly impossible to get ahold of. Going all the way back to the Middle Ages. I’ve compiled a comprehensive history of exorcism, even outside the church’s jurisdiction. No one had thought to do that before.” You have been talking longer than you planned to, you realize, your voice getting faster, tone lighter. It was easy to talk about work; it’s all you’ve been doing for the last year. 

“A lot of people fear the unorthodox.” Julien comments, dabbing a napkin at the corner of his mouth though he eats so neatly. “It’s what I’ve come to expect in the church.” 

The others voice their assent, a groan and a tsk. 

“But I thought all sources would be useful. I’ve even been able to track the movements of specific demons across millennia.” You can’t stop yourself and you bite your lip. You’ve said too much. It’s too dangerous. Blackwood had outright refused to tender your report. No one had seen it but for him and yourself. The others collectively lean in and it would be smothering but for the fire in their eyes. 

“Specific demons?” Magnus speaks for all of them. 

“Yes. Certain behaviors and patterns coincide with individuals, like a modus operandi of sorts. Imagery and phenomena are like a fingerprint for demons.” 

“Blackwood hadn’t told me about that.” Magnus frowns, expression betrayed. 

“He didn’t think I had sufficient evidence.” You would have questioned the theory yourself if you didn’t have firsthand experience. If you didn’t know that sometimes the things you read about can come kicking down your door. 

“You still have them, your findings?” Julien whispers, fork in one hand, mid-bite. 

“Upstairs. It’s still very rough,” You warn, holding up your hands. 

“We should look at them sometime.” Magnus sips his tea, halfway through breakfast and beginning to slow down. 

“After I’ve made some adjustments…” You busy yourself moving the potatoes from one side of the plate to the other. It’s suddenly very warm in here. The silence stretches on.

“Hey, kid, you’re not eating.” Cas is long finished, black coffee by his elbow still steaming. “Do you not like it?” He asks, but he’s grinning. He knows the answer and you get the distinct impression he’s trying to scare you into eating more. It works. 

“No! It’s great. I’m just-” You’ve tried to make sense of the kind of hunger you have now, but it’s not a food-hunger. It’s something deeper and hidden, occult, and insidious. It’s a craving you can’t name. You start eating again. It is perfectly spiced, the potatoes hot and crispy. 

“You better get used to it, pumpkin, Julien is the best and he’ll ruin you for all other food.” Cas cuts you off. There’s a familial bump of Cas’s elbow against Julien, who does nothing to retaliate. He is smiling into his plate, though, clearly pleased. 

They are an odd little family. 

Magnus seems to detect something shift in you when he looks over. His serene smile has been put aside for something curious. “I didn’t expect you to be… this motivated. Most of us fall into this line of work, instead of choosing it.” 

“Sometimes work is chosen for us whether we know it or not.” But it’s not some divine force you’re thinking of, but the consequences of your actions. You get the strange feeling he knows what you’re talking about because he just hmms his agreement. 

“You ready to start then?” Cas asks, teasing, chin propped up on his hand. Seemingly harmless like this. 

“Mostly just wondering what I’ll be doing. Here.” 

Cas looks at Magnus. “We weren’t sure about that either, since we’d never met you. They mostly send candy-ass wannabes to us and we’ve sent ‘em back every time. Too soft or whiny, so we don’t usually get ‘em for more than a couple weeks.” 

Magnus frowns at Cas, then smiles at you. “_That_ being said, we have every hope you’ll stay with us for a time. Right now, any research assistance or help around the dormitory will be much appreciated. We won’t ask you out on a job until we’re sure you’re ready.” He assures you. 

“How will you know if I’m ready?” 

“We can tell.” Julien offers, standing with his empty plate and collecting the others. 

“Wait, let me. You cooked breakfast.” You rise as well, grabbing up your own plate before Julien can snatch it. 

“You gonna do that one-handed, there, scout?” Cas looks up from his newspaper, gestures to the bandage on your hand. He’s surprised when you nod. 

“It’s mostly fine.” You pause, piling plates when Julien returns to his seat. “I’ll be careful.” You oblige, taking the dishes to the sink. It’s a familiar feeling, washing dishes, doing chores. Comfortable routine. 

“You better.” Cas rolls his eyes, going to the squat silver coffeemaker on the stove. You can smell it from there, strong and bitter. He pours himself more and then fills another cup. “Here. You look like shit.” It’s at your elbow before he stalks off, back up the stairs. You can hear him take them two at a time. 

“Cas is energetic, at least.” Magnus shakes his head, slow, ponderous. “You’ll be used to him soon enough, I’m sure.” He calls to you, over the sound of the groaning faucet. 

“He’s a lot, sure, but that’s not a bad thing.” You say over your shoulder. 

“That man has no filter so he can be… upsetting.” Magnus is clearly holding back when he says it. “And demanding, and demeaning, and bratty.” He continues like he’s counting them on his fingers. 

“There’s nothing in the Bible about swearing, so he likes to say.” Julien pipes up, though his velvet voice is like a sursurance. You almost don’t hear it. “Or drinking, for that matter.” 

You wouldn’t know. You’ve never taken your studies seriously enough for your teachers. All but Blackwood, anyway. 

“So, what do you enjoy in your free time? When you’re not too busy?” Magnus asks and it might be for Julien’s benefit from the way he perks up at the direction of the conversation. 

It’s hard to find time for interests these days, between fitful sleep and long days in the library. Everything from that time feels so distant now as you’ve pulled further and further away from it. “Books, art. Nothing particularly exciting.” You have to smile to yourself at the easy lie. 

“Art is what brings humanity together in the face of hopelessness.” Julien says before Magnus can speak. It’s its own kind of comfort, to know that Julien doesn’t have to ask questions in order to have a conversation. “It binds us to one another.” 

A shiver runs down your spine, down your arms, and you scrub harder. 

“After dishes, would you like to come with us to the Palazzo? It’s better in the early morning before the tourists are awake.” Magnus stands, the bench scooting back across the wooden floor. 

“Sure.” You say, mostly as an appeasement, partly because you wouldn’t want anything else. You’ve been cooped up in old, dusty rooms for too long and you’re forgetting what the sunshine is like. 

“Come on, then. Dishes can wait.” 

“Nearly finished.” You counter, setting the last plate aside to dry. 

“Then shall we?” 

—

It’s midday by the time you return. Your forehead is sweaty and your clothes cling to your skin. There’s the beginning of a sunburn across the bridge of your nose. The others had the right idea when they brought hats and wore linen. 

They don’t dress as priests, but everyone greets them like priests. The neighborhood is small; people talk. Magnus explains that they perform other services for the town and they usually eat really well. This let them use the monthly stipend for other uses. Magnus winks when he says it. 

Julien has an errand to run for the fisherman who lives at the end of the street, too old now to get groceries. Such as it went in their little corner of the world. Magnus and you are left on your walk back down the winding alleyways. 

When you both arrive, the dorm is silent and the dust motes hang in the air where the light hits the floor. 

“I haven’t given you the proper tour,” Magnus smiles. He bought an armful of flowers that he’s putting in a vase when you turn the corner and go into the dining hall. 

“I didn’t know there was more beyond this.” You admit, unbuttoning another button of your shirt. It’ll be off by early afternoon if you keep this pace. 

“Just the patio and the study.” Magnus shrugs. There’s a distant sound of an accordion. Someone somewhere is listening to music and it makes your moment so much more silent. “Do you garden?” There’s a door tucked back in the corner of the kitchen. At first you figured it was a window, with floral curtains and diamond panes. But he pushes it open and there’s a crude stone path leading around behind the building. You follow it. 

At one time the patio might have been a storage shed or a brick square but it’s alive with color and fragrance. Herbs span the walls of the tall wooden fences. Plants in pots, in beds, hanging from the pergola above you as vines writhe around the structure. There is a small table and an ashtray, cigarette butts threatening to spill over. It’s spring, so the flowers are alive. Tiny dewdrops of white on a thyme plant, the long stems of lavender all along one wall. You spy some calendula and basil. Rosemary is in a hanging basket, slowly growing too heavy as the lining it beginning to sag. It’s full to the brim with life. 

“It’s been my pet project for many years.” Magnus says, leaning down to investigate some yellowing on the sage plant. 

“It’s lovely.” You stand in the shade of the vines, air cool, the last of the watering from this morning long evaporated. 

“You’re welcome here anytime. Though I can’t guarantee we won’t join you at some point.” He adds and you would call it playful. 

The question that’s been nagging at you since you arrived bubbles up in your mouth. “What did Blackwood tell you?” 

“I don’t know-”

“You’re all treating me like I’m so fragile, so I know he must have said something.” You fiddle with the end of one of the bandages, peeling it back further and further every time. You don’t look at him, expecting the worst. 

“He didn’t share details, if it’s any consolation.” Magnus sits on one chair and stretches his legs, crossing his ankles in front of him. “Just that you had come to the church in very bad circumstances. I mostly noticed because you don’t like to be touched.” His words are cold but his expression is warm. It makes your stomach turn. 

“That’s not because of what happened.” You say, but it’s not the discussion you wanted to have. 

“You know that sometimes there aren’t always reasons for why we do things or why we want things a certain way?” 

“Sometimes.” You reiterate, sitting across from him. 

“What I’m saying is you don’t have to have a reason for being wary of us and it’s our duty as your mentors to respect it.” 

Mentors. You liked the sound of that. It felt more real than teacher or flatmate. 

“You’re one of us.” He twiddles his thumbs in his lap like maybe he’s said too much. “If you want to be, of course.” 

“Thanks.” 

“I honestly thought they forgot about us entirely before they sent you.” He chuckles, leaning back in his seat. Relaxed. This is his element. 

“No accolades, remember?” You smile back at him. 

Magnus looks taken aback until he realizes he should laugh. 

—

The study is like any other. Nothing special but for a wide table, an armchair, and an old lamp. You’ve handled many books in your time and the condition of these is mediocre at best. The room is too dry for the paper to stay supple and it feels like it could dissolve between your fingers when you thumb through an antique Italian dictionary. 

“Any research you will do can be conducted here. I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, but we have a specialized sort of library.” Everything is about demons, every single work. From Scott to King James to the Lesser Key of Solomon. “And I’m sure you have some access to the central archives, should the need arise.” 

“Yes, Fa- Magnus. Yes, Magnus.” You catch yourself again before you turn and leave the way you both came. 

You’re sure you’ll grow familiar with the dingy room soon enough. 

The radio grows louder as you descend the stairs. Something lilting in Italian interspersed with static. Someone is humming along. You and Magnus round the corner into the dining hall and Cas is occupied with filling vials with an eye dropper at the table. He’s wearing an apron, a charming floral pattern, and no shirt. The heat is in full sway and the room is stifling. His arms are strong, defined. Still no bruises or lesions, like he mentioned yesterday. Oh, he was talking about the twins-

“Can you turn it up? I’m a little busy.” Cas says, lip between his teeth in concentration. 

Magnus turns the radio off. “Do you really have to do that here?” He runs his hands through his hair, no doubt struggling with his thick waves in this humidity. There’s silver at his temples where you hadn’t noticed before and he looks older when he frowns. 

“Where else?” 

“Your room, for one.” 

“Not enough light. You know we only get the morning sun. Tell him, pumpkin.” He hasn’t looked up once from his task at hand. He has a large mason jar at his elbow and there’s a cross sticking out of it. Your skin goes cold and the whispers grow frantic. 

Magnus turns to me and you blink back into focus, taking in his expectant face. 

“My room is pretty dark.” You cross your arms over your chest like you might stifle the movement under your skin. 

“See, dad?” Cas rolls his eyes and returns his full attention to his task at hand, the smallest glass vial you’ve ever seen. It looks like a raindrop between his fingers. “Relax. I’m almost done anyway. I’m sure the kid’s never seen this before.” You haven’t and you want to and somehow, you force yourself forward. 

“You’ve seen holy water, right?” Cas leans forward, eyes wild and mischievous. “This is holy water on crack.” His canine peeks out when he smiles, wolfish. 

“How do you make it?” You sit across from him at a polite distance. It’s a fine line to walk and your companion is screaming at you to move away. You can see _his_ silhouette in the shadows that fall across the room, under the table, in Cas’s pupils. 

“Trade secret, doll.” Cas sets aside the dropper and closes up the mason jar, the cross still inside. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Here, help me tie these.” 

He throws several lengths of fine cord at you with tiny metal clasps. Cheaply made, from a factory somewhere. 

“What are they?” You look at the small knot in the cord. The vial could fit snugly in the polyester-elastic cage. “You’re making holy water charms?” It slots together in your mind. 

“Yeah. For fun and profit.” Cas works meticulously and you never thought he could be so focused on something for longer than thirty seconds. 

“We do share them with neighbors, but we’ve found that, well, tourists also seem to appreciate them.” Magnus says, dancing around the subject. 

“You sell them for wild amounts of money, right?” You fill in and Cas’s mouth quirks. 

“Yeah, kiddo. We’ll make a snake-oil salesman outta you yet.” He pipes in. 

Magnus narrows his eyes at the both of you. “And Cas, if I catch you with another scheme, believe me, I will…” But he can’t finish his threat. 

It would be strange to see Magnus angry, but something makes you think he might wear it well. You can remember the blurred details in those videos you watched late at night during your thesis. That dark, determined face that looked beyond the screen and _into_ you. There was something so real about it, but it has since fled from him. It has left behind this mild-tempered gardener. 

“You gonna help me or what, kiddo?” You look at the vials sealed with a small cork and at your hands. The hands that no longer held a rosary, the hands that itched when folded in prayer. 

“I-” You begin, voice catching. “I **have** **to go**.” It’s not all you speaking. You can feel a second voice in your mouth, a chorus to yours. 

You cough like you have something in your throat and leave, through the doorway and out the front door. The heat hits you like a wall and you squint through the sunshine. The buildings are bright and alive, the clothes on lines above your head offering a small respite from the noon sun. Shit, fuck, shit. 

You start walking. 

—

There is something to be said from wandering through alleyways and narrow streets on your own, in solitude. You’re present in those moments, a part of the world, rather than apart from it. All the doors are opened to you at once. It’s hot and you’re sweating and you’re halfway miserable trying to come up with some excuse for your return. 

“Scusi,” You approach a man standing on his doorstep and smoking a crooked cigarette. It’s hand-rolled and you’re praying he has another one. But now you just have to remember how to ask. 

Someone behind you speaks in soft Italian and the man on the step breaks into a rich laugh that fills the lane. The smoking man answers in Italian and you’re ready to keep walking when you glance behind and see Julien closing the distance between you. 

“I told him you might be lost.” Julien pulls the hat from his head, hair flattened at the sides. He’s carrying a canvas tote on one arm. There’s a long loaf of bread peaking out and it’s so cliche you stop in place. “Am I wrong?” 

“Not lost, just… weak.” Blackwood used to scold you when he caught you smoking in the gardens. Julien looks at you then back at the man stubbing out his cigarette on the stone step. 

“Weak to what?” He asks, wary, brow raised. 

“Just cigarettes.” You shake your head, more embarrassed than ashamed, like you know you should be. 

“Oh, that’s simple.” He reaches into the pocket of his khaki slacks and retrieves a cigarette case. “If you’re weak, I’ll be weak with you.” He pulls two out, lights one, then hands you another. The motion is so fluid. He flicks the lighter for you to lean into. 

You inhale, no tar, just nicotine. Nice cigarettes. It’s been a while and you already feel it singing in your veins. “It’s a common enough vice.” His voice is so quiet in the hot street. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve before he rests the hat on your head. It’s too big and sits funny, but the heat in your cheeks subsides without the attention of the sun. 

“I always hoped it was common enough that no one would notice.” 

“God sees everything. But I think He must understand.” 

“Of course.” This was never your sin. The sin you’d chosen for yourself was much more damning: Curiosity. 

“I might recommend taking a walk a little later in the evening when the heat has faded.” 

“It was an impromptu decision.” It’s nice to pretend that everything is normal for a while. You both circle back through the maze of laneways, moving slowly. You get the nagging feeling he knows you’re avoiding the dormitory. “You did some shopping?” 

“Yes. For dinner. Cas requested some candy as well.” 

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” You offer, tilting the brim of the black hat up so you can meet Julien’s eyes. They are a steely grey, matte and sharp. 

“You’re different than I thought you would be.” 

“I have to ask what you expected, then.” 

“Someone taller.” He jokes, lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. “Less quiet.” 

“I’m quiet?” 

“Yes.” It’s matter-of-fact and you press your lips in a thin line. 

“Maybe a little. I never mean to be.” 

“Most people are so loud.” He doesn’t have to say it but you know he’s speaking of Cas. 

“You are quiet too.” You can’t stop the words from spilling out of you. 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“Yes!” You say too quickly. “I mean, it’s a good thing. I admire it in a person.” 

“Thank you.” You’re at the front door and it’s too soon. You can feel the tension at the base of your skull. 

“Is something wrong?” Julien sees you hesitate when he reaches for the door handle. 

“No. I just said something stupid earlier.” You say, dismissive. 

Julien turns to you, serious as death. “Don’t be so scared of them. We’re full of our own vices, after all.” 

“Thank you. For the note. On my door.” You cut in, bowing your head, staring at his shoes. He removes the hat and places it back on his head before shouldering the door open. You remember it being heavy. “I wasn’t sure it was you, at first.” 

“I knew I would be gone when you arrived.” Julien steps across the threshold and holds a hand out for you like you’re crossing a very tangible trench. “I wanted to help you feel at home.” 

“I appreciate it.” You can’t take his hand. 

Julien shrugs. “It is a small kindness.” He hangs his hat on the peg by the door, below the dark wooden cross. “Come in; it’s cool in the shade.” You follow behind him. 

The first floor is quiet. Julien goes to the kitchen to put things in the fridge, the bread on the counter as well as a stack of various candy. 

“Hey, Julien!” Feet on the second-story landing, Cas caterwauling, free falling. “I’m gonna go out and look for the kid. He left after he freaked out about something. I asked Maggie what was up but he won’t tell me anything cuz he doesn’t wanna say that the kid got fucked up by his-” He rounds the corner, sunglasses in one hand, a lollipop in the other looking like a grade-schooler playing at adult. 

Cas sees the both of you and stops. He doesn’t wear bashfulness well. He doesn’t blush, but he turns white. The jagged scar tissue in his face starker. 

“I found our new trainee, if that’s who you’re referring to.” Julien is unreadable. 

“No, it was, uh, that kid down the street. Got in a fight last week and his ma was wondering if I could say something to him. Y’know, a little man to man.” Cas laughs, loud and high and fake. “See ya!” He turns on his toe and walks out. Now you suppose he’s relegated to wandering a while in the hot day. 

“I’ve never seen Cas embarrassed before.” Julien chuckles under his breath. 

“I suppose I did freak out.” You shake your head, looking at the dining table. The holy water is gone, but the flowers Magnus picked up in the morning are still bright and alive, unbothered by the spring heat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Julien asks, off-hand. 

You do, you don’t say. “No, no. It wasn’t anything, really. It was just…” 

“Cas put you on the spot?” 

“Yes.” True enough that it doesn’t make you sick to your stomach to agree. 

“He likes to do that. Next time, maybe you should retaliate.” He hands you a candy bar from the stack. “Like so. Especially since these are his favorites.” He grabs another chocolate bar and unwraps it for himself. 

“I wonder what he’ll say when he returns.” 

“Whatever it is, it won’t be appropriate so we best not listen.” He doesn’t touch you but he feels so close and warm, just by being. 

“Thanks for the smoke. And thanks for not asking. About, y’know.” 

“It wasn’t easy.” Julien licks his lips, satisfied and setting the chocolate aside. 

“It’s not a big deal, really, just a weird… thing I have.” 

“Everything has its weight in our lives. Whether we like it or not.” He smiles, but there’s something behind it so you turn away and go to the fridge. There’s a row of sparkling water and you have a sudden thirst. You start to ask Julien if you might have one. 

Magnus rounds the corner suddenly, glasses perched on his nose, looking particularly human. Julien and you both stop. He’s holding a book that he tucks behind his back. “Oh, sorry, is Cas gone?” 

“Probably not for long.” Julien interjects. 

“You heard?” He doesn’t sound particularly excited about the prospect. 

“There’s a kid down the street that needs attention,” You smile, teasing, but you’re not mad. You can sense this tension in Julien too when he pulls the bread from the bag and begins slicing it. Concise movements, efficient. 

Magnus winces, searching the floor for an answer. 

“It’s okay.” You say, automatically because you suddenly can’t stand to see Magnus at a loss. “You don’t have to lie to me.” 

“It’s not that we… I mean, I don’t…” Magnus pauses, meeting your eyes, so intensely you take in a breath. “We were wondering what we did wrong.” 

You start forward, on auto-pilot. “It’s not that. I promise.” You put a hand on the arm of his sleeve, fingers wrapping around his upper arm. He tenses then immediately relaxes. 

“Then what is it?” There’s something academic about his question, not judgmental.

“I’m clumsy. I didn’t want to break anything.” 

“Ah. Well, I won’t say that the supplies are very expensive.” Magnus admits, pink in the cheeks and laughing to himself. 

“Still, I get nervous.” You lean towards him and it’s a convincing lie, based in a twisted truth. 

You squeeze his shoulder, quietly affectionate. Your cells are revolting, your own blood pressing against the underside of your skin. “You, uh, didn’t do anything wrong.” It feels strange trying to reassure a man a good head taller than you, wearing cheaters. 

“Neither did you.” He lets you pull away with little ceremony. Your companion is a chorus in the back of your head, feeding you ideas and thoughts that make you shiver when you look up at Magnus. You have to hope the exorcist can’t see them in your eyes, the tar thoughts that ebb and flow. 

“What’re you reading?” Julien interrupts the two of you, peeling an orange without looking at it. The skin of the orange curls in one long strip. 

“Oh, nothing, really. Just le Carre. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me.” He turns, rotating the book so his body is blocking the view of it, and retreats. 

You look over at Julien, who shrugs once before turning back to the counter to strain orange juice into a glass. “How about a drink?” He changes the subject fluidly and retrieves some ice from the freezer. He pours juice over the ice, then club soda over that. 

It’s light and bubbly and simple and it’s better than you expected. You say as much and Julien leans the seat of his pants against the edge of the counter, enjoying his own glass.

“I suppose I’ll start working tomorrow?” You hazard as a question at first. After all, you’re unaccustomed to so much leisure time. 

“I’m sure we could find something for you to do, between the three of us.” Julien unbuttons the collar of his shirt, skin flushed from the sun. “How is your Italian?” 

“Dismal.” You smile in spite of yourself. 

“Should we practice, then?” There’s a light in his eyes you can’t quite name. It’s not Cas’s intense mischief or Magnus’s sense of wonder, but something in-between. 

“I can see the use, especially if I’ll be running errands for you.” It’s a small encouragement, but genuine. 

“If you don’t have anything else to see to, we could now. While I prepare dinner.” It’s a considerate offer and you nod, taking up residence beside him at the counter. 

“What’re you-”

“In Italian this time.” Julien smirks, pulling an apron from the hook beside the oven to protect his clothes. 

You try again in unimpressive, university Italian. Stiff and formal. 

“Lean into it more. Trust yourself.” He says, in fluent Italian and you have to focus to understand. 

Dinner preparation progresses and when it’s ready, Magnus drifts into the kitchen as if on cue. None of you have heard word of Cas so perhaps he’s busying himself with real work. 

Julien says a traditional grace and breaks the bread and you feel the weight on your shoulders even more now. You get through the meal; the other two are particularly quiet. They exchange silent conversations over their plates and you’re done quickly. You gather your own dishes and wash them while the others agonize silently over their food and their next course of action. 

“If there’s nothing else I can do tonight, I think I’ll take the evening to look over my thesis. Since you two were so keen on it.” 

Magnus looks up at you with that same kind smile, though it’s struggling at the edges. It’s not the first time you’d give anything to hear his thoughts. 

_I might … tell you_. You know the voice you hear ring in your head, know it well. 

After a sharp intake of breath, you glance at Julien who nods. “I can finish here. Cas may not return until dawn.” 

“I wouldn’t ask him where he’s been.” Magnus warns, smile falling bit by bit. 

“No, sir.” You respond, tight-lipped. You see him hesitate when he thinks to correct you and then decides against it. “I won’t ask any questions I don’t want to know the answer to.” 

Magnus doesn’t smile, but looks at you for a long time. His thoughts are loud static. 

_Don’t … want to know? _

Julien recovers when the moment hangs in the air. “Don’t work too hard.” 

You caution a smile and depart. They don’t talk until you’re out of earshot, or far enough away that you can’t understand their hushed whispers. 

Before you can think of any reason why not to, you duck into the library and turn the lamp on. The spines of stacks of books come to life. Maybe some reading to keep you company. You recognize many of the titles and authors, could recite their bibliography entries if pressed. You reach for a particular title, “The Devil & I”, brow furrowed. It’s unfamiliar. 

You feel a hand close around yours, a shadow in your periphery, but each finger settles against yours. The palm has warmth. 

“You never want to play.” He smiles. He’s always smiling. You can’t see it now, but you feel it. The perfect picture of depravity. “Darling, if you are looking for a devil, I’m right here.”

He slams you against the shelves, hard indents against your chest, making you wince. The shelf trembles with the impact. Your companion doesn’t do anything immediately; he’s been patient all day long and he wants to make it last. 

“Wrong devil.” You growl, breath quickening. 

“But the right devil for you.” He twirls the ends of your hair before gripping and snapping your head back against his chest. His other hand closes over your mouth so you can’t make a sound. Or what sound you can make is muffled by flesh. “I think we fit so nicely together. Don’t you?” 

Your heart is pounding and your senses are alive. There’s cobwebs on the ceiling and you’re trying to follow their patterns. The pain and warmth and pins-and-needles under your skin are soothed by his touch rather than antagonized by it. A detail that brought you to a new level of despair when you discovered it last year. 

The lamplight dims, like the circuit is overloaded, like a wink. 

“In nomine-” but you can’t get further because his hand on your jaw squeezes and his other hand drifts down to cover your eyes, your nose. Everything is him, the room smells like a bonfire. It’s the first time you’ve dared to notice that his hands are calloused. 

“Shh, shh. Don’t waste your breath. You’ll need it later.” He tears his teeth through the fabric of your shirt and into your skin. Your yelp is little more than a silent sob. You can feel his hips aligning with yours, his chest flush against your back. “I thought you might want one to go with your beautiful hand.” 

You return the favor and bite down impossibly hard on his fingers pressed against your lips. Your mouth explodes with tar, hot and sweet, not blood sweet, but sugar sweet. Syrup sweet. You shove him away and he lets you. He wants you to see. His large fingers are covered in it, black ooze clinging to him, to you.

“Oh, now we match.” He steps back when you spin around, on guard, ready for your counterattack. “How precious.” 

You wipe your mouth on the sleeve of your shirt. It’s already ruined and you need the noxious taste out of your mouth. The lights dim further when you look up and he’s only a silhouette. You’ve never seen his face; you don’t think he wants you to. But the capricious demon has already moved on to his next topic. 

“If you wanted an Italian tutor, you could have just asked.” He is swathed in fabric or shadows or waves of black water. It changes from moment to moment. There is something beautiful about it, especially in low light when anything seems possible. 

“I don’t particularly want to draw more attention to myself.” You frown, refocusing. You won’t play along with his game. He sighs and slumps into a wide armchair, flipping through the book on the short table beside him. There’s an empty tea cup there. 

“‘Shoulder to Lean On: Coping with Friends and Family with Trauma.’” He reads the title, draping one leg over the arm of the chair, lounging. While you can’t make out his face, you can see the outline of his hair. Long and full and maroon in this light. “Magnus is really trying, isn’t he?” He tosses the book away, uncaring where it lands. 

“What was he thinking? Earlier? You said you’d tell me.” You caution, reaching up to touch the collar of your shirt. It’s wet and your fingers are bright pink when you hold them under the lamp. 

“He was thinking that you looked so sad.” He speaks softly so the words mean something different. Something shameful. “He was thinking what it would be like to see you smile.” 

“Bullshit. You’re lying.” 

“I have no need to lie.” He reaches for you, beckoning. “Come here. Let me show you.” His other hand pats his lap like he’s ordering a dog. You find yourself obeying. If a little appeasement will keep him complacent, you will oblige. 

“I’m not in the mood for games.” You sound older when you speak, world-weary beyond your time. 

“I know.” He wraps his arms around you, pulls you into his lap and slots you against his chest. His chin pressing against the crown of your head. Stubble again and your mind returns to Magnus. It’s something they have in common, something that makes your skin go cold. “It’s too bad, really. I had some ideas for the evening. But no matter. I’m adaptable.” 

He’s gone and you stumble backwards. It’s more humiliating than surprising. You right yourself quickly, as if you might upset the room by lingering. You do take the extra moment to return Magnus’s book to its proper place before grabbing “The Devil & I” and fleeing. 

Distantly, you hear the front door ease open before you step through your own door. You haven’t had the heart to take down Mad’s note. 

While you’re not tired, you find yourself more drawn to your bed than your desk. 

—

You’re still looking down at the title page when you come to on the edge of your bed. You’d fallen asleep before you’d had a chance to turn out the lights. But that’s not what wakes you, but rather the insistent knocking at your door. 

The motel clock on your nightstand says it’s barely 11 o’clock, but your bones protest. Setting the book aside, a first-hand account of a rather horrific haunting in Los Angeles, you go to the door. 

As you pass by the mirror hung on the wall, you have to stop. Glancing over, your mouth is a mess of black ink and your eyes are too bright for such a dark room. No, no, no. The tears that well at the corners of your eyes are black. You don’t feel them spilling down your face, but you see them in your reflection. No, please, no. 

Another knock, softer this time, and it’s gone. Your face is a little flushed, but nothing out of sorts. You reach up to trace where the shadows had been on your own face. Still only smooth skin. Warm to the touch. 

You pull the door open and Cas appears, wearing an expression you’ve never seen before. 

“You okay, kiddo?” He asks, voice straining. You raise an eyebrow, looking him over. He’s wearing a shirt, entirely unbuttoned. His torso is just as defined as his arms, divots deep enough to trace, sharp v-line at the waist of his sweatpants. His hair sticks up at odd angles. 

“Yes? I’m sorry I left my light on. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep.” You reply, bashful, stomach sinking when you remember the tear in your shirt, the frayed cotton and not to mention the kiss of blood. 

“You were sleeping?” His shoulders relax, the wild look in his eye softens. The smile he wears now is uncharacteristically uncomposed. 

“Yeah. What’s going on?” Your hand on the doorknob tightens as you step back into the room, hiding half your body behind the door. Maybe you can play your shoulder off, but based on how they reacted about the wine bottle, you can’t imagine the results will be any better. 

“Do you sleepwalk, pumpkin? Or talk in your sleep?” It’s back to business with him, stern eyes, arms folded across a mostly bare chest. 

“Maybe. I don’t know.” 

“Do you dream?” 

“Yes, most nights. Don’t you?” 

“Sure, but what do you dream about?” He’s dropped the act, those pet names, now it’s just curt words and insistent questions. 

_Tell him… , darling. _

Hearing his voice so clearly, twice in one night, is unheard of and you don’t immediately answer. You have to think about what this means. _He’s_ getting stronger. 

“The usual things. Teeth falling out, driving a car I can’t control, sometimes I’m back in school, or I’m in church.” You’ve been lying to psychologists for most of your adolescence, since you’d arrived at the church’s doorstep. You know what they need to hear to be satisfied. 

“Were you dreaming just now?” He takes a step into the room towards you, closing the distance. 

“I don’t know. Father, what’s going on? What is it?” It’s getting harder to breathe. 

“I just heard you… speaking. Talking in your sleep is all, scout.” He recovers, stopping mid-step as if he remembered himself. The circles under his eyes are deep and his face is flushed. You can smell the sharp sting of wine on him. 

“What was I saying?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t hear ya.” He laughs, trailing off and looking beyond you and into the room. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t having a nightmare.” 

“I don’t think so.” You answer, cautious. 

“Good.” He perks back up, even if his retreat back into the hall is sluggish and reluctant. 

“Do you get nightmares, Father?” You don’t entirely know why you’re asking. 

“Yes.” He admits with a sigh and turns too suddenly, has to catch himself on the door jamb. “The drinking helps.” He adds, typical smirk a little too sad to be anything cutting. 

“If you need anything, let me know. But only in an emergency, okay?” 

“Cute.” He reaches to ruffle your hair again, like the first time we met. You don’t flinch this time either, but his hand stops, mid-air, poised above your head. 

All you can feel are other hands and other fingers and you’re tired of thinking of them. “It’s fine. I just don’t like surprises.” 

He ruffles your hair, a little more gently than before. It makes your scalp itch like sunburn but it’s grounding. The whispers are shrieking and you let out a shaky breath. 

“Hard habit to break.” Cas says, but you can’t hear him. The blood in your ears and the insistent knocking at your subconscious drowns him out. He pulls away like he realized that he’s been bit and staggers back. “Goodnight.” 

Cas is gone. Someone, somewhere in the dark, is laughing. Time for bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just for your information, I am adapting this from a first-person story and I’m not perfect, so if I miss any pronoun changes or if you notice any other mistakes, please let me know. I’m trying my best, but things slip through the cracks.
> 
> Otherwise, your comments always brighten my day and any criticism is appreciated. This is all new territory for me! ^^*


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